It's been a long time in silent exile. Maybe not long to you, since I am out of mind, but for me counting the hours, days, weeks, months without familiar social interaction, three years since arriving here has seemed like forever; a lifetime. A prolonged time of waiting for the other shoe to drop, as I try to build a home in a wilderness..
Once again we have arrived at rainy season. It is late this year.Some crops have failed, including my own experiment in farming, a crop of oats. My fields are green with weeds.
I had been chronicling since arriving here three years ago. I have profiled for you a number of the most familiar local characters. I was waiting to polish each one before posting it. Two years of writing about Mexico have vanished, digital code wiped away by computer malfunction. Three more years of the book on my bakery experience, plus all the files of recipes from the bakery, all gone. The Cosmos is telling me I am not to bother my silly head with authoring a book. No one cares about my quirky life; it is just one of millions.
Two years ago the rain was so plentiful that the flat bridge that crosses our 'river' at the entrance to our village was overflowing with maybe two feet of water. Villagers have to cross that bridge to get to the highway and the bus stop. The old people hung back, waiting and hoping for a kind neighbor to stop their truck and offer a lift the twenty feet across. The river was swift and scary. This year, in spots across our valley the creek has dried up completely. The driest I have seen it yet.
I came here to join a community of meditators, others following the path of Buddhist compassion and lovingkindness. No one else got the vision; I am alone. The village is about two kilometers away from the tiny village of El Pozole. I am in the midst of orchards and pasture land. My companions are the birds, dogs, cats, horses.
One dog in particular is worth remembering. She died only yesterday. Petunia is mostly pit bull. A guy tried to foist her onto me, as just the protection I needed on my isolated farm. He had found her in the street all skin and bones, and 'rescued' her. But he was not interested in adopting her. She is a kind, gentle, affection playful senior of 8 years. As much as I loved having her around, she saw the place my little Maltese mix had in the home. The little one sits on my lap, goes in the car with me everywhere, is generally pampered. And so Petunia tries to climb on my lap, when I am sitting in my recliner watching TV. One night she came home with a lame hind leg; we never discovered the nature of it. It could be a sprain, or arthritis, or who knows. It makes it harder for her to climb up onto the recliner. At 55 pounds, she makes a large impact on my small home. She tracks mud in, jumps on blankets, rubs against clothes, causing more laundry and mopping. After about a year, the limp equally mysteriously disappeared.
She is a vagabond, a nomad. There is a home in the village that maintains kibble for her. This home is the home to a number of dogs; people bring their puppies to Sylvia. She always finds homes, except when her own kids or grand kids adopt the puppy. Petunia would lie in the sun in front of the house. She would protect the little dogs against the big digs. She is very protective.
She would roam. Across the street from Sylvia is a house being renovated. In this village family properties are in clusters, so the three houses across the street belonged to her three aunts, only one of whom is still alive. One empty house is being renovated by a son-in-law of the deceased sister. He lives in LA. He is an alcoholic, a retired person who never quite grew up emotionally, being the pampered youngest child of a large brood. He escapes from an unhappy marriage by coming to El Pozole many months at a time, supposedly to remodel the house. When his wife comes to visit her cousins for a few weeks a year, she is sad at how he has destroyed her childhood home. These two love Petunia, and try to care for her when they are around. Petunia feels adrift. She comes to me for chats, and to just lie unmolested in the sun.
About a year ago she had an ulcerated mammary. After Jose returned to LA, I took her to the vet. He cut the mammary. He also took out her uterus, saying that we were dealing with cancer and that the cancer originated in the uterus.
Last week Petunia came to me to show me her wound. An ulcer had erupted, between nipples. As soon as she came in the door, after looking me dolefully in the eye, she laid down and showed me her wound. It was leaking like a sieve. Blood was pouring out. I cleaned it up, tried to bandage it, put antibiotic cream on it, but it bled all night soaking through her bed. I took her back to Jose and Marisela and suggested they get medical attention.
Later in the day we texted; they said they had an appointment three days away. I was beside myself with this news; I saw it as an emergency. But I do not have the money for Petunia's care; this couple from California does. I was helpless to intervene. When the appointment came I went with Jose to keep the appointment. It was a new vet; Jose said it was a cousin. We waited an hour. We phoned. There was no vet. The phone number written on the wall was a Durango number. I suggested that perhaps the vet's main practice was in Durango, and he came to Canatlan certain days. From long experience with Jose I know that he is about the worst communicator I have ever known, one of those who talks but doesn't listen.
We went to the vet who did the cutting a year earlier. The qualified vet was not there; only his father was in attendance. He cleaned up the wound and sewed it up. I was startled when a spurt of blood came from the wound. At this point we were still thinking that Petunia had impaled herself on barbed wired; this spurt made me question that scenario. We were yet to learn that the cancer was still active inside her.
A few days later they texted me that they were taking Petunia down to town to have the ulcer cut out. I texted back, "Get a second opinion"
Within the hour we were in my car headed to Durango. We found a vet. He explained that she probably needed a complete mastectomy on the right side of her body. To ensure that it would not spread further (we had no measure of how widespread the cancer was) she would need chemotherapy. To do nothing would be to allow the cancerous ulcer to grow until it killed her. It was just a matter of time, and a lot of pain. Because Petunia is a quiet dog, using barking only to communicate to dogs, not to humans, the humans presumed she was in no pain. But when she would visit me she would look into my eyes for minutes at a time, trying to tell me about it. Our choices were to spend hundreds of dollars on a now nine year old dog, in a situation where she could not get adequate hospice care given her nomadic ways; let the disease take its course until she died; or a mercy killing.
I held my own counsel and let them talk it through. I knew it would be easy to find a gun back in the village, and quickly dispatch the situation. Jose was of the same mind, but Marisela was in tears thinking of the dog's termination by whatever means.
The next day Petunia was put to sleep in Canatlan. Early in the day I visited them to drop something off they had left in the car. Jose tried to persuade me to come with him. The job did not need the two of us, he was a chicken. Marisela was no better. I offered to take her on my own, but Jose did not like that. It is just as well, because I had a lot of work to do on my farm. I said my goodbyes to her, and that is the last I will see of my good friend Petunia.
Because of the topography, I guess, there is no cell service in homes. If someone wants to use their phone they must go outside into the dirt street. This prevents me from developing closer relations to the other seniors in the village. No casual chatting by phone. None of them drive, so none has ever been out here to visit me, or see what a house I have built.
The exception is Berta, but she is worthy of her own story.
I did eventually manage to get a wifi box from TelCel, the main cell provider in Mexico. Through that I get to watch Netflix and Prime Video. I also have a satellite, dish, that dishes up old movies and old NCIS. I see adds for Bull, but this shows after I have gone to bed.
I am so desperate for companionship that I have continued to talk to my boyfriend in Chongqing, China to come live with me. He is a city guy; he would be miserable isolated on the farm. He would also have to give up all his government pension and benefits. He professes his undying love for me, but is no fool. He would treat me well if I moved there. It is tempting.
My home is beautiful and comfortable. I have a guest bedroom and bath. In a narrow valley being bordered on the east and west by hills, the views can be breathtakingly beautiful.
Exiled in Paradise
Once again we have arrived at rainy season. It is late this year.Some crops have failed, including my own experiment in farming, a crop of oats. My fields are green with weeds.
I had been chronicling since arriving here three years ago. I have profiled for you a number of the most familiar local characters. I was waiting to polish each one before posting it. Two years of writing about Mexico have vanished, digital code wiped away by computer malfunction. Three more years of the book on my bakery experience, plus all the files of recipes from the bakery, all gone. The Cosmos is telling me I am not to bother my silly head with authoring a book. No one cares about my quirky life; it is just one of millions.
Two years ago the rain was so plentiful that the flat bridge that crosses our 'river' at the entrance to our village was overflowing with maybe two feet of water. Villagers have to cross that bridge to get to the highway and the bus stop. The old people hung back, waiting and hoping for a kind neighbor to stop their truck and offer a lift the twenty feet across. The river was swift and scary. This year, in spots across our valley the creek has dried up completely. The driest I have seen it yet.
I came here to join a community of meditators, others following the path of Buddhist compassion and lovingkindness. No one else got the vision; I am alone. The village is about two kilometers away from the tiny village of El Pozole. I am in the midst of orchards and pasture land. My companions are the birds, dogs, cats, horses.
One dog in particular is worth remembering. She died only yesterday. Petunia is mostly pit bull. A guy tried to foist her onto me, as just the protection I needed on my isolated farm. He had found her in the street all skin and bones, and 'rescued' her. But he was not interested in adopting her. She is a kind, gentle, affection playful senior of 8 years. As much as I loved having her around, she saw the place my little Maltese mix had in the home. The little one sits on my lap, goes in the car with me everywhere, is generally pampered. And so Petunia tries to climb on my lap, when I am sitting in my recliner watching TV. One night she came home with a lame hind leg; we never discovered the nature of it. It could be a sprain, or arthritis, or who knows. It makes it harder for her to climb up onto the recliner. At 55 pounds, she makes a large impact on my small home. She tracks mud in, jumps on blankets, rubs against clothes, causing more laundry and mopping. After about a year, the limp equally mysteriously disappeared.
She is a vagabond, a nomad. There is a home in the village that maintains kibble for her. This home is the home to a number of dogs; people bring their puppies to Sylvia. She always finds homes, except when her own kids or grand kids adopt the puppy. Petunia would lie in the sun in front of the house. She would protect the little dogs against the big digs. She is very protective.
She would roam. Across the street from Sylvia is a house being renovated. In this village family properties are in clusters, so the three houses across the street belonged to her three aunts, only one of whom is still alive. One empty house is being renovated by a son-in-law of the deceased sister. He lives in LA. He is an alcoholic, a retired person who never quite grew up emotionally, being the pampered youngest child of a large brood. He escapes from an unhappy marriage by coming to El Pozole many months at a time, supposedly to remodel the house. When his wife comes to visit her cousins for a few weeks a year, she is sad at how he has destroyed her childhood home. These two love Petunia, and try to care for her when they are around. Petunia feels adrift. She comes to me for chats, and to just lie unmolested in the sun.
About a year ago she had an ulcerated mammary. After Jose returned to LA, I took her to the vet. He cut the mammary. He also took out her uterus, saying that we were dealing with cancer and that the cancer originated in the uterus.
Last week Petunia came to me to show me her wound. An ulcer had erupted, between nipples. As soon as she came in the door, after looking me dolefully in the eye, she laid down and showed me her wound. It was leaking like a sieve. Blood was pouring out. I cleaned it up, tried to bandage it, put antibiotic cream on it, but it bled all night soaking through her bed. I took her back to Jose and Marisela and suggested they get medical attention.
Later in the day we texted; they said they had an appointment three days away. I was beside myself with this news; I saw it as an emergency. But I do not have the money for Petunia's care; this couple from California does. I was helpless to intervene. When the appointment came I went with Jose to keep the appointment. It was a new vet; Jose said it was a cousin. We waited an hour. We phoned. There was no vet. The phone number written on the wall was a Durango number. I suggested that perhaps the vet's main practice was in Durango, and he came to Canatlan certain days. From long experience with Jose I know that he is about the worst communicator I have ever known, one of those who talks but doesn't listen.
We went to the vet who did the cutting a year earlier. The qualified vet was not there; only his father was in attendance. He cleaned up the wound and sewed it up. I was startled when a spurt of blood came from the wound. At this point we were still thinking that Petunia had impaled herself on barbed wired; this spurt made me question that scenario. We were yet to learn that the cancer was still active inside her.
A few days later they texted me that they were taking Petunia down to town to have the ulcer cut out. I texted back, "Get a second opinion"
Within the hour we were in my car headed to Durango. We found a vet. He explained that she probably needed a complete mastectomy on the right side of her body. To ensure that it would not spread further (we had no measure of how widespread the cancer was) she would need chemotherapy. To do nothing would be to allow the cancerous ulcer to grow until it killed her. It was just a matter of time, and a lot of pain. Because Petunia is a quiet dog, using barking only to communicate to dogs, not to humans, the humans presumed she was in no pain. But when she would visit me she would look into my eyes for minutes at a time, trying to tell me about it. Our choices were to spend hundreds of dollars on a now nine year old dog, in a situation where she could not get adequate hospice care given her nomadic ways; let the disease take its course until she died; or a mercy killing.
I held my own counsel and let them talk it through. I knew it would be easy to find a gun back in the village, and quickly dispatch the situation. Jose was of the same mind, but Marisela was in tears thinking of the dog's termination by whatever means.
The next day Petunia was put to sleep in Canatlan. Early in the day I visited them to drop something off they had left in the car. Jose tried to persuade me to come with him. The job did not need the two of us, he was a chicken. Marisela was no better. I offered to take her on my own, but Jose did not like that. It is just as well, because I had a lot of work to do on my farm. I said my goodbyes to her, and that is the last I will see of my good friend Petunia.
Because of the topography, I guess, there is no cell service in homes. If someone wants to use their phone they must go outside into the dirt street. This prevents me from developing closer relations to the other seniors in the village. No casual chatting by phone. None of them drive, so none has ever been out here to visit me, or see what a house I have built.
The exception is Berta, but she is worthy of her own story.
I did eventually manage to get a wifi box from TelCel, the main cell provider in Mexico. Through that I get to watch Netflix and Prime Video. I also have a satellite, dish, that dishes up old movies and old NCIS. I see adds for Bull, but this shows after I have gone to bed.
I am so desperate for companionship that I have continued to talk to my boyfriend in Chongqing, China to come live with me. He is a city guy; he would be miserable isolated on the farm. He would also have to give up all his government pension and benefits. He professes his undying love for me, but is no fool. He would treat me well if I moved there. It is tempting.
My home is beautiful and comfortable. I have a guest bedroom and bath. In a narrow valley being bordered on the east and west by hills, the views can be breathtakingly beautiful.
Exiled in Paradise
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